Fillet O'Fish
by lamentomori
Summary: A lazy afternoon alone with YouTube for Colt results in getting a lapdance from Punk. 7Sins Continuity Warnings: 2nd person Colt PoV, Slash (Colt/Punk), Smut, Profanity, sex toys, bad stripping.


Warnings: 7Sins Continuity 2nd person Colt PoV, Slash (Colt/Punk), Smut, Profanity, sex toys, bad stripping.

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YouTube is your friend about fifty percent of the time. Sometimes it gives you incredible things free, other times it gives you shaky fan-recorded videos of Punk stripping at some house-show somewhere and a mildly uncomfortable half-mast cock. It summons up images of the lap-dance, you raffled off so long ago, images of him looking desperately uncomfortable and bitching you out, with more dedication and diligence, than he had over almost anything else that was his idea in the first place. You think you've watched this little clip a dozen times now and in your mind all you can hear is his ill-tempered bitching about how you shouldn't just blithely nod and fucking agree to his stupid fucking ideas and god-fucking-damnit, Cabana, stop fucking laughing at me.

"The fuck you watching?" His voice is entirely too close, surprisingly soft in your ear, you didn't even hear him come in.

"Uh, stuff?" You honestly aren't sure how to explain what it is you're watching. It's weird no matter how you look at it.

"_Seriously_?" Shaky video Punk rolls his hips on your screen and honestly, looks all kinds of hot, real Punk is standing behind you, laughing, probably looking all kinds of his normal, scruffy self. "You get sick of porn or something?" He drapes himself over your shoulders, trapping you in place and out of the corner of your eye, you see him nod at your groin. "I'm pretty good at that now, huh?" His voice is little more than a soft murmur in your ear, making the hairs on your arms stand on end, his fingers trail down your arms slowly.

"Dance for me and I'll tell you." He tenses up slightly and laughs, an odd, slightly uncomfortable noise.

"Fuck off." He steps away from you; you turn the office chair around and look at him. He's rubbing the back of his neck, looking torn between uncomfortable and annoyed.

"You offered!" You think, at least, that it was a backwards offer; he doesn't seem to agree though and looks at you, all narrowed eyed irritation, his annoyance winning over his discomfort.

"I am not a fucking dancing for you. Do I look like a _whore_?" His arms crossed over his chest, scowl on his lips, leaning against the wall, you really can't stop the smirk forming on your lips.

"Didn't say you were a whore, Punkers, alls I said was I wanted you to dance for me." You hold a hand out to him, inviting him to come closer to you, all he does is snort, eyes still hard and pissed.

"Implied." He doesn't move from his spot against the wall, you sigh and stand, walking over to him, crowd him up against it more and kiss him, your hands holding his head still.

"C'mon, I'll even tip you." You mutter against his lips, kissing him again.

"Fuck off." He scowls but does lean towards you for another kiss, his arms wrapping around you, his hands bunched in your shirt at your waist.

"C'mon, Punkers just a _little _dance." You start nipping at his throat, his head tilted to the side to give you better access. He snorts again and moves one hand to tug at your hair.

"What's in it for me?" He sounds mildly sly, like he has something in mind.

"Dunno, what you want?" You ask him, looking him in the eye, trying to judge what he might have in mind.

"Hmm." He nips at your throat and shrugs. "Dunno yet. I get something though?" You're always mildly suspicious when he's evasive like this, it's clear there's something he's angling for, even if he's keeping it to himself.

"I guess." He looks at you as though trying to assess the sincerity of that statement.

"Sit down." He pushes you away from him and steps away from the wall, heading over to the computer and typing at it. When _Welcome to the Fuck Shop_ starts playing, it doesn't surprise you in the least. He grins at you. "You got, three minutes, sit down."

"Asshole." You mutter, sitting on the chair and watching him carefully. His hips moving to the music, absently toeing off his sneakers, kicking them to the corner and straddling your thighs. You lean back and force the video back to the start.

"Cheat." He mutters, writhing on your lap, your hands at his waist, sliding up under his hoodie. He smirks and leans back from you, all the way down, his head nearly touching the floor, hands on it, his back arching impressively. You run your hands slowly down his body, clasping his hips tightly as they move with the beat of the song. "Open my fly?" You do as he asks, unbuckle his belt and untie his pants; he rises up, his arms draped over your shoulders. "Thanks." He twists as he stands, managing to somehow shimmy out of his pants and get off your lap at the same time. He sheds his boxers next, kicking them over by his sneakers, still moving with the beat of the song that you're quick to skip back to avoiding it finishing, his eyes narrow but he says nothing. There's a part of you thinks that this is mildly ridiculous, he's standing in his too big hoodie, probably a t-shirt and his socks, moving like a half-trained lap dancer in the little room you've basically turned into an office. You keep this thought till he bends at the waist, his back to you, giving you a clear view of his tight, little ass, to peel his socks down and off. He straightens up and turns back around, the fabric of his hoodie between his teeth, his eyes focussed on your own. He unzips it with one hand and shrugs out of it, kicking it off to the side somewhere. His t-shirt is just long and baggy enough to hide his body from you, he straddles your legs again and takes your hands, guiding them along his naked thighs, you move them to grope his ass. He gets off of you and peels his shirt over his head, throwing it at you with a lazy smirk. Once you've chucked it to the side somewhere, he takes an exaggeratedly theatrical bow, winking at you.

"C'mere." Perhaps not the best or most erotic striptease in the World but you still want to fuck him, at the very least feel him.

"Sit." He says and leaves the room.

"Where the fuck you going? Punkers? You're fucking naked, man! Get back here!" You shout into the hall. He comes back eventually, a sly little grin on his lips, your lube and a dildo in his hand. "Where'd you get that?"

"There's this mystical place called the Internet, Cabana, sells all kinds of exciting things." He smirks and pops the cap on the lube bottle, then pours some into his palm and coating the dildo.

"And I thought it only sold socks." You mutter, watching him as he sets the dildo on its end on the ground and then moves his lube coated hand behind him, his toes curling in the carpet. "Hey, turn round." If he's going to prep himself, you want to watch.

"Socks and porn, that's what the Internet is for." He moans softly and sinks to his knees, thighs splayed; he takes his hand from behind him and pours a little lube over his cock. One hand returning to fingering his asshole, the other takes hold of his cock and strokes it slowly. "Fuck, catch." He lets go of his cock to throw you the lube. You pour a little over your cock and stroke slowly in time with him. He shifts position, on his knees, head and torso on the floor; one hand gropes for and grabs the dildo. He slides it into himself, fucking it in and out slowly. His eyes meet yours as he fucks himself. "You gonna sit there or you gonna fuck me?" He sounds remarkable together and haughty for being hard and fucking himself. You stand and move over to him, take the dildo out of his body and set it down on its end and haul him to his feet, turning him around and kissing him fiercely.

"You done being a cock tease, Punkers?" You ask him, nipping at his throat.

"For now, Cabana." He smirks; one of his feet is moving up and down your calf, you kiss him again.

"Take up yoga." You mutter against his neck, he scoffs and shakes his head. "Wanna fuck you when you're all pretzelled up." You tell him, pressing him against the wall, stroking his cheek. "You all twisted up, _begging_ for it." He shivers but snorts dismissively.

"I don't _beg_ for anything, least of all for you to fuck me." The way he's grinding against you and trying to get another kiss from you takes the edge off of his words. He pushes you away from him and lifts one leg, rests it on your shoulder. "C'mere." You step closer carefully, his leg still on your shoulder. "This twisted up enough?" You're not entirely sure how long he can hold this pose for, standing with one of his legs on the floor and the other draped over your shoulder, has to be mildly uncomfortable for him but you'll be damned if it isn't hot. There is _something_ about fucking him when you're fully dressed and he's naked, an added dimension that you can't really explain, makes him seem somehow vulnerable in a way that he isn't.

"Not quite, it'll do for now." You line your cock up carefully with his hole and fuck into him hard, the force of your thrust making him rise up on to his tiptoes, his hands scrambling to gain purchase on your back.

"Ah, fuck." He pants into your ear. "Harder." You oblige him and fuck him harder, his foot leaving the floor entirely. You trap him between the wall and your own body, fucking him hard and fast, his other leg wrapping around you calf, trying to use it to give him some kind of leverage to push against you. It fails miserably but you rather like the feeling of him wrapped so completely around you. His hands are still scrabbling at your back, his nails feel like they're getting a little too long; you can feel them leaving little burning trails on your skin even through your shirt. "Shit, fuck, fuck, stop, stop." He pants in your ear. You still in him, letting him rest his foot back on the ground.

"You okay?" You ask him, he shakes his head and pushes at your chest.

"Hip." He mutters, his voice slightly tinged with pain, you step back away from him, gently easing the leg on your shoulder down.

"Still?" You ask him, rubbing at his hip lightly, his eyes drift closed and lazy little smile appears on his lips. You were sure when he came away from the commentary booth, he'd said it was because his hip was better and not because he was bored of sitting on his ass and had reconciled himself with the idea of being Cena's TV program.

"Comes and goes, it's getting better." He meets your eyes easily, that lazy little smile on his lips still. If he's lying, he's doing a better job than usual "Sit down." He pushes at your shoulders, you follow his guidance and sit on the floor. "Cross your legs." You cross them at the ankle and look up at him, a smirk on your face. "Cute." He narrows his eyes and cuffs you on the back of the head; you tuck your legs up Indian style and watch him expectantly. He rolls his hips and shakes the leg that was causing him trouble, dropping into a crouch, stretching it out straight to the side.

"The plan?" You ask him, eyebrow raised, absently stroking your cock, he glances at you and rolls his eyes.

"Hold your fucking horses." He mutters, moving to the splits with surprising grace.

"Fuck horses, I was _ten_ seconds from busting a nut in your _pretty-"_

"I am not _pretty_." He snaps, eyes filled with annoyance once more.

"Little ass." You keep going, ignoring his interruption "And you decide it's fucking time for calisthenics? Fuck that, get over here." And stop stretching like that, you add mentally, as he lies face down, his legs still splayed, you rather wish you were behind him, fucking him like that would be _interesting_.

"No fucking patience." He crawls over to you, his ass high, head low and sucks your cock down, bobbing his head a few times.

"Fuck." Your hands rest on his head, trying to keep him where he is but he's already leaning back, eyes flitting around the room.

"Where'd you put the, ah." He leans over you, reaching over your head to grab the bottle of lube on the desk still. Your hands trail down his sides, to rest on his ass; you press one finger against his still loosened hole, sliding it into him with little resistance.

"Don't need it, Punkers, c'mon." You try to guide him down to your cock; he resists you easily and moves away from you, to sit on the floor with his back against the wall. "Uh? The fucking? We not finishing this?" You nod towards your still hard cock.

"Hmm?" He's ignoring you in favour of recoating the dildo; he fucked himself with, in lube. He stretches his legs out in front of him; you absently tickle his toes, your fingers getting a kick for the action. You try to grab at his ankle but he raises his legs, up over his head, toes against the wall.

"Fuck." You breathe softly; his ass is on full display to you, so incredibly close, his tight little hole glistening and then stretching around the dildo once more, as he slides into to himself in one, quick, firm movement. "Fuck, Punkers." He spreads his legs, keeping his toes against the wall, his body folded in half.

"Stay." He snaps, looking at you through his legs, you sit still, stroking your cock slowly, watching him fuck himself with the dildo. It looks awkward for him but the lines of his body are incredible. You manage to sit still for about a minute but the noises he's making, the visuals he's providing, you want to be in him again. You crawl over to him, sitting cross-legged and catching his legs, pulling them down to rest on your shoulders. The change in position makes him gasp. "Told you to stay."

"Not a dog, Punkers." You take the dildo from inside of him and thrust into him in its place.

"Fuck." His back arches again and your hand goes straight to his cock, pumping him quickly, your hips trying to match your hand's pace. He comes quickly, his body trembling, his voice caught in his throat. You move, kneeling and fold him in half, fucking him hard and fast. You come hard, pressing down against him, staying inside of him till he makes an odd _mewling_ noise and digs his heels into your back. "Off." You smile slightly at him, brush a kiss over his nose and pull out of his body, lifting his legs from your shoulders and setting them down carefully.

"You okay?" You stroke his short hair, the frosted tips; you're not sure about in the least. He nods sleepily. "Can't sleep on the floor, Punkers." He stretches and rolls his eyes. You stand, fixing your pants and trying to locate all of his clothes scattered as they are around the room. "You gonna get up?"

"Feed me." He stares up at you, the soft, just fucked smile still on his lips.

"I got no food, up." You wriggle one foot under his shoulder and try to prompt him into action.

"You owe me a tip." He says, squirming away from your foot.

"I." You sigh, he has a point, you did promise him a tip. "Fine, I'll be back in a bit, don't fall asleep on the floor, you'll bitch." You tell him from the doorway.

"Fuck you, Cabana, I do not bitch!" He shouts back as you leave the apartment.

It takes you a little longer than you had expected to get back home, you finally return with a McDonald's takeout bag in your hand. He's sprawled on the sofa, clearly recently showered and dressed in your clothes. It's long since stopped being a surprise to find Punkers treating your wardrobe like it was his own, you're certain there's more than a few things in there that are actually his in the first place.

"Here." You hand him one of the wrapped sandwiches and get a sharp smack on the back of the head. "What?" You ask him, your voice smug. You're not sure what the problem is, he was the one who set the precedent of tipping with fillet o'fish after all.

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**alizabethianrose**, I hope I did it justice, I am sorry there is no glitter but yeah, this is where we went with your stripper prompt...

_AN on the title: Fillet O'Fish was the working title for this and was deemed the most ridiculous title in the World, Welcome to the Fuck Shop was also an option but I don't think that's allowed... And then nothing else would come to me so yes... Fillet O'Fish stuck... Sorry. :(_

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_Got something smutty, silly or whatever, that you think I could write for you? PM me and I'll take a stab at it! _


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